


here in the body truth grows palpable

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (mildly), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Implied Past Rape/Non-Con, Implied/Referenced Past Miscarriage, Infinity Saga Never Happened, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Linear Narrative, Pregnant Steve Rogers, Wakanda (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: Nine moments of making a life in Wakanda.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 110
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	here in the body truth grows palpable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> Title from [Nine Months Making by Lisel Mueller](https://moonfields.org/lisel-mueller/nine-months-making/), it's lovely, go read it.

###### Two.

Steve always drew Bucky’s attention—even when there had been little of Bucky left inside his shell, clinging like an unruly walnut, that poor bastard couldn’t help but focus every shattered thought on Steve. Bucky knew that Steve was something special, long before comic books and academic articles and everything else. 

When they were small enough to be the same size, Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off of him, and that had lasted more or less intact through a century of permutations until now, when they were about the same body-mass once more. 

It was worse than usual, though. 

"Bucky," Steve snapped. 

The enemy’s weapons blasted five-inch holes in everything they targeted, and they were all shooting at once. The noise pulsated even through the barrier shield. They had used them to dig underneath Wakanda’s shielding, pitting away at the soil until it crumbled and then crawling through en masse. 

Bucky tried to keep his focus on the fight in front of him. He gripped his assault rifle and grit his teeth and fired, picking off as many of the reptilian creatures as he could. 

They were ugly, fast and ruthless, and no one knew why were intent on getting into Wakanda. It was day three of this strange, siege-like battle—their firepower was impressive, but they were built on a scale smaller than Earth’s—even their ships had the peculiar proportions of an overlarge child’s toy, no bigger than a rhino, but packed with three-foot-high death machines. For three days they’d shown up with little warning from their cloaked orbital ship and thrown bodies at the shield until they ran out. 

The absurdity would be comical, if it weren’t for the carnage they’d inflicted on the Wakandan outskirts. 

He planted his feet in their adopted soil and shot as many of them as he could, the ranged forces of the Dora Milaje beside him and matching him kill for kill. 

But Steve—Steve was standing with Okoye and her branch of Dora. Most of them were holding spears, but Steve had a version of his original shield painted with Wakandan black and gold. They were the ones that would close ranks with these invaders, if the guns didn’t chase them off today. 

Steve’s center of gravity had shifted back, his stance was wider, and he had the hand not holding the shield resting lightly on his belly. When Bucky saw, he couldn’t help but think of how Steve’s belly-button had recently turned inside out. 

"Bucky!" This time Steve sounded scared underneath the fury and Bucky snapped his eyes back to what he was supposed to be doing. 

He shot, and shot, and shot, until the entire body of the gun radiated heat on his skin—and that was a lot of bullets for a good rifle like this one. 

It wasn’t enough—several creatures escaped containment, their skittish movement making the dry August grass hiss in their wake. 

Steve leapt, shield first—his body sketched a a perfect parabola from the ground and Bucky saw the curve of his belly in its arc. His first blow had the force to crush a handful of the creatures, but these things functioned in numbers. They swarmed up Steve and he threw them off, as brutal as he ever was. 

One of them got as high as the shield and clamped onto it, its wide, gecko-like fingers adhering to the inner curve. Bucky could only keep shooting at all because Steve was so close to the still shimmering barrier that he was nearly in the line of fire, twisting his entire body to dislodge the creature, and Bucky didn’t have to take his eyes away from him to aim.

Bucky had followed many orders in his day—good and bad, most of them without blinking an eye. These were good orders, reasonable. T’Challa was a fine strategist who cared about his people. Bucky was part of a larger battle plan—the ranged weapons holding the line and then the two flanks of close combat fighters, half led by Okaye and the other half by T’Challa. It was sensible. Bucky should keep firing. 

Steve cursed loud enough that Bucky could hear the consonants, even under everything, and threw the shield off of his arm with enough force that it whistled. 

He stood alone, in just an ad hoc version of his old combat suit in simple black, and Bucky didn’t want to be a soldier anymore. 

Bucky dropped his gun and leapt toward Steve, tearing one creature off of him with his metal hand. At the first touch, the thing went too easy—releasing its grip on Steve and falling into Bucky’s arms, chirruping as it turned its full attention on him. 

In the corner of his eye he could see roughly half the force swarm Steve’s shield and take it away, underneath the shield, back to their model rocket ships. 

But many were now far more interested in Bucky and he felt their grips surging up his legs. This was an unfamiliar horror—the mass of them made up of so many little pieces. It was very different from fighting someone his own size, but when Bucky spat that at bullies he hadn’t realized that sometimes smaller would be harder to kill. There were too many of them, and his normal methods aimed too high. 

Steve was wild-eyed, dragging them off of Bucky—before Bucky’s arm slid off his shoulder like it hadn’t ever been attached, right into the waiting pack of creatures.

Two of them grabbed it between them, and they took off for their ships. 

###### Three.

The look on Steve’s face was enough to send him right into a loose parade rest, his back straightening to brace himself. 

"You had very specific orders," Steve said. "Did you not understand them?" 

It was amazing that a guy who had been promoted to his current rank for disobeying his command could so credibly imitate Colonel Phillips. 

Bucky didn’t want to have this conversation. 

"I didn’t jump out of any helicopters as far as I could—"

"Shut the fuck up," Steve said. "You had one job, and—"

"It was the vibranium," Shuri said. She walked up to them, ignoring that Steve was gearing up to chew Bucky out. "They got your shield, and they were happy until the Sergeant waved his beautiful arm around."

"I didn’t know you could remotely disconnect my arm like that." 

She flicked her fingers into the air as if scaring away a fly, her gauntlets folded away into deceptively delicate bangles. "Would you prefer I let them take it the hard way?" 

Probably. But Bucky wouldn’t throw that ingratitude in her face.   
  
"So they took the metal and left," Steve said. His attention locked on Shuri, even though Bucky stood between them. Steve was the type of mad where he couldn’t even look at Bucky, and Bucky’s stomach churned. 

"Do we know if they’ll come back?" 

"Captain Rogers, I can’t see the future," she said. She pulled up her kimoyo beads and projected the scans between them, hovering on the dirt. 

T’Challa and Okoye walked up, accompanied by several other ranking soldiers. It hadn’t just been the Dora that deployed for this. 

The talk shifted between diplomacy and military strategy lightning fast, with the coterie planning for two scenarios simultaneously: on the one hand, appeasing the aliens with gifts of vibranium and on the other, obliterating them from the sky.

Steve stood right in the middle of it, the cut on his cheekbone already fading but leaving behind crusted blood. 

Bucky didn’t have the stomach for this; he walked away. He wanted so badly to go home, sit in the armchair they’d commissioned a local artisan to make, so it had the tufted Victorian drama that had always meant the height of luxury for them as kids. It was in the sun for most of the afternoon and the cat they had gotten just before they found out about Steve’s pregnancy loved nothing more than to monopolize the comfy seat and soak up some rays. 

He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t—it would be irresponsible for him to walk off the field of battle. 

That thought made him want to leave even more, though, and wasn’t that the fucked up thing. He couldn’t even pretend in his own head that his highest priority was Steve’s safety. 

He was grateful for the relaxed approach to field discipline the Wakandans took, especially the parts of the doctrine that focused on the mere appearance of readiness. When he found a stretch of undisturbed grass and lay on his back in it, he wasn’t the only one. 

The thick Savannah grasses both buoyed him and slipped out around his edges, rising around him in a miniscule forest. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his cheeks, feeling very much like their cat. 

His reprieve wasn’t long. Steve’s march was very distinctive and Bucky pulled himself up before he had a chance to be snapped at again. 

"We’re going home," Steve said. He was still angry and Bucky didn’t blame him. He nodded and walked next to Steve—when he reflexively took a pace that would put himself submissively a few steps behind, he sped up, but he didn’t speak. Steve glanced at him, eyes narrowed, as if his annoyance only increased because of Bucky’s reserve. 

Steve’s body had done most of the growing it would do for the baby, but his big body braced his stomach and he still could move. The serum had made him strong and made a place for a child in him—Steve was certain those two things were inseperable. Bucky didn’t even disagree; the battle proved Steve could fight. They took a fast pace across the fields, walking toward Birnin Zana. Others on their assorted vehicles zipped past them—ships and rhinos and hover-bikes. They waved to Steve and Bucky, but didn’t call out; the domestic tiff was be easy to spot. 

Bucky hadn’t meant to make this a clash of wills, but Steve broke first. 

"What were you thinking?" He stared straight ahead, tension visible all the way up his jaw as he walked. 

"I wasn’t," Bucky said. "I mean—no. I’m sorry. I knew I was disobeying my orders. I knew that you had it handled, or if you needed help, it would be coming elsewhere. I know you can take care of yourself. I—just couldn’t watch it." 

Apparently this was the wrong answer, because Steve stopped dead. He grabbed Bucky’s wrist—he had been walking on Bucky’s right, the habit developed when Bucky never used to wear the arm—and yanked him to a halt. Bucky turned to face him; Steve’s grip on him felt like iron—vibranium. 

"Do you not respect me anymore?" Steve said. "Do you not trust me to make the call on whether I’d be an asset to the mission?"

The questions were said as if they were rhetorical, hard-edged and mean, but Bucky could hear an ancient insecurity in them. Steve always reacted like this, when Bucky threw himself into shit on his behalf—like it was about Steve and what Steve could do. 

Bucky shook his head. "No—Steve. You’re not listening. _I_ couldn’t cope. It was me and on me and my fault—I fucked up, and I know we need to help, and I’ll do it again if those fuckers come back—but it was _me_."

Steve snorted. "Yes, because it has nothing to do with me that you broke ranks to come to _my_ defense. Sell me another one, Buck." 

He yanked his wrist free from Steve’s grasp—Steve let him, after only the briefest resistance. 

"I’m not a soldier," he said. "I never made as good of one as you—even when there was no me in me, I couldn’t finish my fucking mission. It’s not you, it’s not—a man who had the right discipline could fight beside you and watch you get hurt, watch you die, but I flat can’t. It’s enough to ask me to be the stoic Army wife while you put yourself in the shit—but don’t make me watch it." 

Steve stared, like this was incoherent to him—part of Bucky wanted to scream. Bucky had spent the entire war wishing to go home and only staying because Steve was there and Steve asked him to follow; his biggest secret had been that he would’ve raced home if Steve even for a moment implied that he’d still respect Bucky after. Bucky loved Steve, but he never wanted to watch him die; his cowardice meant that he’d rather it happen miles away. 

"You’ll have to fight," Steve said, slowly. "If they come back, we’ll need all hands. Wakanda—"

"I said that," Bucky interrupted. "I know. I know what sacrifice is, too, and if any place deserves our lives on the line, it is Wakanda over anything America has ever been. I fucking know." 

Bucky started walking, his eyes stinging. He was the one crying—Steve was twenty-six weeks pregnant, and Bucky was the only one of them that ever cried. 

Steve let him go for long enough that if he followed, Bucky couldn’t hear his strides through the grass under the sound of the wind. Bucky felt contemplative eyes on his back.

###### Four.

It wasn’t fair to be sulking when he was the one who fucked up, so he set out to calm himself when he got home. He started the dishes they had abandoned when the alarm of incoming hostiles rang out. There weren’t many—they’d been expecting the creatures to return. 

Bucky felt the warm water flow between his fingers and enjoyed the simple pleasure of dirty things becoming clean and tried not to hope too hard that it was over, at least for now. 

When the door of their home opened, Bucky forced himself to stay relaxed. Steve had taken his time on his way back. 

"I spoke to Shuri again." His voice wasn’t apologetic—nothing in his matter-of-fact tone acknowledged the fight. "She didn’t spot them in orbit anymore. No guarantee they’ll stay gone, but maybe it was enough for them."

"Either way," Bucky said. He’d spent the last twenty minutes vibrating; he was incapable of letting Steve drop it. "I’ll do my job." 

"It isn’t actually your job." 

Bucky snorted. "Could’ve fooled me." 

"If I go, would you rather stay home?" It was the first time Steve had asked point blank, in all their lives. He’d always just assumed that Bucky was like him—only going places he wanted to be, only doing things he wanted to do. Bucky had outright lied to him and told him that he had enlisted—he wondered why Steve had never asked about it. It was common knowledge, now, that it had been the draft that sent Bucky Barnes to the front. Bucky had been grateful that Steve thought he had that internal drive, that strength of purpose. Steve always thought he was a better man than he was. 

Bucky licked his lips. He let the dish slip out of his hand, landing so quietly at the bottom of the sink that it didn’t make a sound audible through soapy water. Bucky pulled his hand out and used it to grab the sides, like he needed to hold on. 

"I’m your right-hand man," Bucky said. 

"You’re my husband. And retired. Do you want well and fully out of the fight?" 

Bucky’s laugh sounded uncomfortably bitter to his own ears. 

"I’m serious," Steve said. "You can. T’Challa chewed me out when I asked him if you were allowed to sit things out. The draft is another thing they think is barbaric here." 

"I know you’re serious." Bucky turned to face Steve, rubbing his wet hand on the front of his shirt to dry it, twisting it in the thin cotton that he always put on underneath his body armor. "I know. You wouldn’t have said it if you weren’t."

Steve’s eyes were steady. 

"I don’t want to fight," Bucky said. "I really, truly don’t." 

Reading something in Bucky’s face, Steve closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Bucky and hauled him into a hug. The heavy swell of his belly pressed into Bucky’s, making him shudder. 

"I’m sorry," Bucky said. He accepted the comfort for what it was, pushing his face into Steve’s neck. "I’m sorry that I fucked up out there. I’m sorry that it’s _your_ pregnancy that is making a coward out of me."

It felt like vivisection to admit that. The words carved into Bucky’s gut and revealed all his quivering, glistening organs. 

"You’re an idiot," Steve said. He’d pushed his face into the side of Bucky’s head, muffling the sound of his voice, but Bucky could feel the vibration of it on his skin. "Or I’m an idiot—it’s probably that one. I don’t care. You aren’t a coward. I don’t care in the least that you don’t want to fight, it doesn’t change a thing." 

"I’ve always been afraid, this isn’t a trauma thing," Bucky said. "It’s stupid—I’m not even afraid of dying my own fucking self, I just—I thought of those guys ripping you apart, of your body getting cold and—she’s too young to live on her own, she’d die in there too, and I didn’t want to see it. I kept thinking that maybe I could scoop you both up and take care of you with _my_ body, but it doesn’t work like that and it’s fucking stupid, because if you get you both killed, it’ll be even—"

"Stop it," Steve said, tightening his arms on him to dam the flow of words. "You aren’t stupid."

Bucky took a deep breath like a gasp, like the beginning of a sob, but that was all—he didn’t shake apart. Steve was warm and solid against him and even though it felt like breaking to admit this persistent truth, he wasn’t and Steve wasn’t, and they were in the kitchen of their beautiful little house in the most beautiful place in the world. Their baby was between them in the hug, and they didn’t know if he would be he or she would be she, but they knew he wasn’t ever going to be “it.”

"You do things I couldn’t dream of doing," Steve said. "Division of labor. I’ll take the battlefield. You’ll take the home front." 

"I’ll grow a victory garden," Bucky muttered. Steve shook him, gently. 

"I was a stupid kid," Steve said. "In a lot of ways, but—well, Buck. Don’t mistake my rampaging insecurities for bravery, either. I could’ve done a lot of good with a victory garden."

"You couldn’t grow shit," Bucky said. "You’re the worst farmer I’ve ever seen. It’s amazing you’re growing a baby." 

Steve drew back to smile at him, eyes soft. The lines radiating from his smile were so faint as to be invisible—Bucky’s face was more worn than that. Steve was invincible. 

"There you are," Steve said. "And my cooking?" 

"Atrocious," Bucky confirmed. "I couldn’t believe you had Sam convinced we all thought over-boiled meat was what food looked like in the forties." 

"I can make a damn fine bed," Steve joked. 

"Only because they made that a military virtue." 

"I’ll shine the shoes, too." 

"I’ll be your house husband, I get it." 

"I don’t think you do," Steve said. He was looking at Bucky with melting tenderness—Bucky wanted to find it condescending, find some residual sense of pride—but he wanted more to curl up underneath it like the cat in the sun. 

"I was so afraid of not fighting that I subjected myself to government experiments to get to do it," Steve said. "I’m not sure that’s any braver than wanting to stay home." 

Bucky leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet. They could keep talking, but Bucky only had so much in him for hearing about how Steve’s willingness to put himself on the line was fear. It felt like salt in his own wounds. 

Luckily, this had always been an enjoyable method of solving arguments—now more than ever. Steve’s mouth opened underneath his, wet and welcoming. Instead of Steve ramping the kiss up, pushing it dirty, he broke off and rested his forehead against Bucky’s. 

"We’re a team," he said, blue eyes unwavering. "You’re not benching yourself, you’re just taking a position that’s better for all of us." 

Bucky’s eyes dropped to Steve’s stomach for a moment, but he quickly returned them to Steve’s face—Steve was the one talking. 

"Don’t talk in sports metaphors,“ Bucky said. “I can’t think about sports after what happened to the Dodgers." 

Steve laughed and let go of Bucky, allowing his joke to change the subject. 

"You can’t play that with me, bud," he said, turning away to get something out of the fridge. "I saw you during Wakanda’s first World Cup." 

Bucky rolled his eyes, the expected response, and went back to the dishes. 

###### Five.

They went to bed together, still quiet. Steve stepped out into the garden late, for them, in what would pass as their old age—Bucky watched him through the window, fascinated by the flickering blue light the kimoyo bead cast on his face. 

Bucky thought about telling him that he didn’t have to keep this hidden, that this wasn’t what Bucky wanted—but he said nothing. When the conversation stretched past the half-hour point, Bucky went to bed. He washed up in the bathroom’s sink, his ritual noises feeling empty without their echo. He changed into a loose cotton shirt and shucked his sweatpants. 

He turned off the lights and then reconsidered, going back to the bathroom turning that light on, opening the door. He got into bed, turning down the sheets on Steve’s side. He pulled the bedding up around him and he felt the rub of his t-shirt on his skin. Glancing at the door, he wriggled out of his shirt and then stuck it under his side of the bed, so Steve wouldn’t see the evidence of his indecision. 

Then, he closed his eyes and endeavored to think of nothing, well-aware that sleep wouldn’t come until Steve returned. His skin felt raw, abraded by the fight, and the fear, and all the things he’d spilled at Steve’s feet. He lay still and thought that he should be more upset, but they’d lanced his wound together and Steve had kissed him. 

Steve tried to be quiet when he entered, but it never worked—in non-combat situations, he had all the grace of an elephant lumbering around the house. The quiet curse he let out when he jammed his knee against the dresser—the same piece of furniture that had been there since the day they moved in—made Bucky smile into the dim light. 

Even with all that unsubtle warning, he let out a shaky breath when Steve got into bed and wrapped his arm around Bucky, pulling him into the little spoon position. That was Steve Rogers: he tried to be quiet to avoid waking Bucky, but then he couldn’t bear to leave him untouched. It was what Bucky wanted and he relaxed into the touch, turning his head to kiss the bottom of Steve’s chin. 

"Everything all right?" 

"Yeah," Steve said, but that was it, there was nothing more. He shifted, getting comfortable, maneuvering Bucky around to where he wanted him—he was getting big enough that it always took him awhile to figure out where his body and the baby wanted to be. Bucky knew he was more often uncomfortable than he let on, but he treasured these quiet moments when Steve allowed himself to fuss. 

Bucky didn’t offer to change positions, but he pushed his body against Steve’s, offering himself as a body pillow to help his spine, and anything else Steve wanted—he rolled his hips, once or twice, to get his point across. Steve leaned over his shoulder, given ample room by the missing parts of Bucky’s body, and kissed the corner of Bucky’s lip, swiping his tongue just barely into his mouth before retreating, settling back in, shifting around once more. 

"G’night," Steve said, settling in. "Love you." 

"Love you too," Bucky responded immediately. He wanted something else, something more, but there was no space between their bodies to propose anything that Steve wasn’t offering—they were as squeezed as close as two people could be and Bucky still needed more, still wanted—he would not tolerate that in himself. The press of Steve’s belly reminded him that Steve did all the hard work, several times over. Steve needed his sleep. 

Bucky had to figure out what he needed before he could go about asking for it, and he wasn’t sure he ever would. 

###### Six.

Bucky woke frozen and gasping, like his mind had tried to strangle him sleeping—even that was silent. His brain had a flair for the dramatic and an unerring thematic sense—he’d had that dream before, but never as often now.

His gut throbbed, deep between his hips—it felt like he was going to vomit, or he already had—enough that he was sore and empty, muscles aching around nothing. 

Their bedroom didn’t have answers for him—nowhere did, but he felt the need to move. He slipped out from underneath Steve’s loosely flung arm. It was early enough morning that the sun was warming the sky still hidden behind the horizon; the perfect time to throw open the window. The beginnings of many different days filtered in—he heard the birds singing to each other about their business, and a pair of fruit sellers bickering about who was to blame for their late start—they’d make the market with plenty of time, Bucky thought, checking the clock. He understood the concern about location—half the time when he went shopping in the packed market, he grabbed the first armful of food near the entrance and made a run for it. 

But hearing them talk, he decided that wouldn’t be today. He wanted to feel the city waking up from the middle of it, with all of them around him. He’d walk to the market and buy some nice things to eat, greet people who knew his name. Nowadays there were usually a select few tourists around—and even that was nice, as a contrast. Bucky wouldn’t be mistaken for a Wakandan native, but he was a Wakandan citizen—that was something. 

Steve would sleep for a while yet—Bucky confirmed with a peek into their bedroom. He was conked out. Steve had been pushing himself for a long time, but growing a baby was hard. They wanted him, but at this point his little fingers were curled around Steve’s spine and holding on tight, taking everything he could from him with desperate gulps. 

The fondness that Bucky felt, watching Steve sleep peacefully, did a lot to shake away the cobwebs of his dream and push back his inchoate anxieties. Steve didn’t need or want someone to take care of him, but he could use some spoiling—the baby would do none of that, not now and probably not ever. It was a miracle that Steve saw Bucky’s ugly secret and insisted that it was fine, even if it wasn’t a choice he would make. They’d both grown up a lot—important, now that they were sprouting someone new.

The cat walked between Bucky’s legs on her way to curl up at the small of Steve’s back, her tiny dark body disappearing behind him. 

He only left his post at their bedroom door to make Steve a big pot of simple porridge before he left—Steve’s incessant heartburn did better if he ate often, which meant starting his day with something easy on the stomach. He couldn’t spice it too heavily, but he hoped Steve would like the little bits of cinnamon and sugar and cream. He put a bag of apricots next to the stove—Steve could add some, if he wanted. 

Bucky slipped out the door just as the first confrontational rays of sun pushed into the edge of the sky. It would be a hot one, but he’d leave the window cracked so that Steve could wake up to the sound of birds. 

###### Seven.

Bucky had never understood what romantics meant when they’d talk about how women glowed when pregnant. Pregnancy was being pushed and pulled by hormones and your body, turned inside out, the baby carving spaces inside you that used to hold pieces you thought you might want to keep. 

But Steve entranced Bucky effortlessly, now—it looked better from the outside and especially in the outside, sun shining. He sat on their front porch steps, sprawled out and leaning back on his elbows. He wore loose cotton clothes and his shirt rode up on his belly, enough to flash an enticing strip of skin. Far from looking violated, Steve looked like he was growing more and more of himself.

Steve could hear Bucky approaching and didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t waiting—by the time Bucky had turned the corner and saw him, he’d set his book aside and watched. 

Bucky hefted the bag of fruit and vegetables for explanation. 

"Your oatmeal was delicious," Steve said. 

"I can boil water and dump stuff in it with the best of them." Bucky set his light burden aside and dropped to sit at Steve’s feet, crossing his legs like a child. He liked to look up at Steve and Steve spread his thighs wider to give him space. 

"How’re you feeling?" Bucky asked. 

Steve sighed and waved his hand, dismissing the question. Bucky reached into the bag of produce and snagged an orange. 

Holding it up between them, Bucky jerked it just out of Steve’s hand reaching out.

"It’s a bribe," Bucky said. "You can get your orange when you tell me how you feel." 

"Ugh," Steve said. He tipped his head back, arching his spine and stretching out his arms. 

"Is that a stop asking noise or a sore noise?" 

"Both," Steve said, with a little grunt, and then relaxed into a looser posture. "She’s changed my balance. I can’t remember the last time I was this sore after a fight." 

You know what might help with that, Bucky wanted to say while running his hand up Steve’s thigh. But he didn’t speak and he didn’t touch. He tossed the orange to Steve, since he’d answered his question. 

Steve stuck his thumb in the top to peel it and the smell burst between them. 

"How are _you_ feeling?" Steve said. He put the scraps of peel in a tidy pile next to him and popped a segment in his mouth. Bucky held out his hand for one, but Steve raised his eyebrows. 

"Well?" Steve prompted. He held the next segment between his fingers, above Bucky’s head. 

"Relieved," Bucky said. When Steve continued to look expectant, Bucky kept talking. "I hated fighting. I hated it more than I thought I would—every time I saw you I was reminded that I just wanted to be home. And you’re okay with that." 

"They’re still gone," Steve said. "No sign of them. And Shuri’s throwing herself into designing some specifically targeted weapon. And of course I’m okay with that." 

"A fair trade for my arm," Bucky said. He felt oddly smug about having lost it again, like it had been a victory to slip free of it without having to choose to take it off. Now that he knew that Shuri could drop it off his body with just a command, it felt even more like it didn’t belong. 

Steve lowered the piece of orange so that it was in Bucky’s reach—in a burst of daring, Bucky leaned up and took it in his mouth directly, licking the salt-tinged juice off of Steve’s finger. 

He sat back, feeling satisfied. Steve’s eyes were intent. 

"You are feeling better." 

"Well, you’re looking beautiful. It’s hard not to be cheerful with such a pretty view." 

Steve’s eyes narrowed in a different way. "And when I’m not around?" 

"I’ll wait," Bucky said. He got to his feet, hooking the groceries on his elbow and offering his hand. Steve used it to haul himself up and then pull Bucky in for a kiss, wet and tasting like oranges. 

Bucky sensed the heat in Steve that he’d expected yesterday, Steve throwing himself into their physical connection in the same way he’d barrel into battle. Bucky let it be hot, because now it didn’t have to be something Bucky had to aspire to. He could absorb Steve’s furious energy when he wanted to come home. 

"I have an idea," Bucky murmured into Steve’s cheek, not wanting to pull away. 

"I bet I’ll like it," Steve said, turning his head to kiss him again. “But, Bucky. I’m sorry. I never meant to make you—”

Bucky didn’t want an apology for that—he cut Steve off with a forceful kiss and Steve took his lead. Bucky had a moment where he thought the surrender was uncharacteristic, but, it realized—it wasn’t at all. They made space for each other. 

Bucky kissed Steve, and kissed him, and they were tangled up in one another as they entered the house. The cat slipped out to go wandering and the bag of groceries tumbled to the floor. 

###### Eight.

Steve’s body towered over Bucky. 

They had started wrapped up into each other, Bucky fingering Steve to an orgasm that slicked the space between them and Steve biting marks down Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky didn’t even pause through Steve’s shuddering groan—he pushed his way deeper, curling his fingers to rub against the hot bundle of nerves that made Steve’s thighs twitch. 

Bucky had no intention of stopping on his own—he fingered Steve with single minded intensity until Steve was the one to lose patience, climbing out of their interlocked embrace with a frustrated growl. He leaned, back, grabbing Bucky’s cock in one of his hands and using the other to support himself on Bucky’s shoulder—his torso was twisted, eyes rapt on the dick sinking into his body. 

Once he was full of Bucky, he grinned down, rolling his hips in eager circles. His cock was flushed and hard between them, curving up and pressed against the bottom of his own stomach. 

Bucky couldn’t stop staring—Steve in the sunlight, his own come streaked across his skin, mixing with their joint sweat, his hair a mess and his eyes blazing. 

He fucked himself onto Bucky, adjusting his rhythm until he made himself moan—and Bucky, wanting to chase that sound, grabbed his hips and jerked up into Steve in short sharp thrusts. 

"Fuck," Steve said. "Oh, fuck." 

This angle wasn’t enough—it couldn’t be what Bucky needed it to be. Slow enough to give Steve some warning, he tipped them both over, Steve on his back with his thighs around Bucky’s hips. This gave Bucky leverage and he used it, putting enough power into his movements that Steve reached up to brace himself against the bed. 

Bucky needed to make him come once more—he was going to wear Steve out. His own orgasm was distant and unimportant, hidden somewhere underneath Steve’s glorious body. 

He wrapped his fingers around Steve’s cock, jerking him off in the same rhythm he used to fuck him—his thumb spread precome across the head of Steve’s cock and down, making the whole thing wet. He didn’t have any way to balance himself—his only hand was on Steve, and his knees were pressed under Steve’s thighs, and he felt like he was going to teeter over as they fell to pieces. 

Steve grunted, eyes squeezed shut, and arched up into Bucky as he came a second time—Bucky rode him through it, watching closely. He waited for the tell-tale languor to sink into Steve’s muscles, his eyes blinking open and a dopey smile on his face—and only then, in that moment, did Bucky lose his control, sliding his hand up Steve’s chest to grab his shoulder, curling in on himself and coming in Steve’s body. 

Bucky felt Steve’s chuckle under his palm and he let himself topple, careful not to fall directly on Steve. He sighed, low and satisfied, and Steve was still snickering as he gathered Bucky’s limbs together and hauled him into a cuddle. 

"Did I wear you out?" 

"You can fuck me if you want," Bucky said. "But let me close my eyes a second first." 

Steve laughed and Bucky nosed into his throat, wanting to taste the warmth in it. 

"Don’t be mean," Bucky said. "I worked hard." 

"You did," Steve said. "I feel very satisfied." 

"For ten minutes," Bucky said. It was more hopeful than a grumble—Bucky just wanted them to crawl into one another, trade each organ between them. Steve could take his remaining arm and give him one of his own, and Bucky would take very good care of it this time. 

When Steve’s laughter subsided, they just breathed together. Bucky listened to the secret sounds of his body and wondered if he’d ever be able to hear the baby’s heart beat. 

"What’s it like being pregnant?" 

Bucky hadn’t that expected that to sneak out, but Steve ran his hand down Bucky’s back to soothe his tension away. 

"It’s weird," Steve said. "I didn’t expect to like it, when Shuri told me what was happening." 

There was a longer pause. Bucky gave him time. He wasn’t sure it was a question that someone could answer— Steve was nice to humor him. 

"At first I didn’t understand why Erskine’s perfect serum would make me able to do this. I’m not sure I get it entirely yet. But—well. It feels right, that that’s what it means to be perfect." 

Bucky felt that answer in his own gut, something twinging in recognition, but he kept his mouth on Steve’s skin and kissed him to keep the words inside. 

###### Nine.

The symptoms of pregnancy were piling up in fits and starts. The baby got bigger, and she dominated Steve’s body, demanding certain types of food and refusing others, shoving his bladder so she’d fit, and kicking him in his ribs just because she felt like it. Two days ago, Steve had annihilated alien invaders; today he just wanted to sleep. It was the first day of his third trimester.

Bucky sat with him on the couch and rubbed his scalp, combing out Steve’s short hair with his fingers. Steve rocked his head back into Bucky’s crotch playfully, but it wasn’t going anywhere. They both knew it. The cat jumped up and established herself on the shelf of Steve’s belly—Bucky started petting her too.

“Who’d’ve thought," Steve said. 

“Not you,” Bucky said. Steve ignored the half-hearted tease entirely. 

“I used to think that I was avoiding you so that you could have kids,” Steve said. “I used to think I was doing you a favor. You always doted on your sisters." 

“I always doted on you."

Steve was smiling—this nostalgia was reminiscing, not serious insecurities. His long eyelashes cast a smudge of shadows on his cheeks, only a little chubbier than they’d been to start. He was beautiful and Bucky would dote on him with joy. 

"Why do you want kids?" Steve asked. "He’s currently trying to kick his way out from the inside, so I could use the reminder." 

Bucky had never been the type to think about a legacy. Before everything, he’d wanted one day after another, as many as he could string together before disaster struck. And then when the avalanche tumbled over both our heads, he did his best to stop thinking about the myriad ramifications his existence had on the world. 

"I don’t think there’s ever a good answer for that." 

"That’s a cop-out," Steve said. 

"Why do _you_ want kids?" 

Steve pinched his side, and Bucky flinched enough that the cat leapt off of Steve, twitching her tail in displeasure. 

"You’re the one who’s good at speeches," Bucky said, watching her go. 

"You always make me beg you for your thoughts," Steve said. "A guy’d get insecure."

"Oh yeah, because you’re so open when you’re feeling overwhelmed." 

They sat with those twin truths. They weren’t harsh, they didn’t sting. The day was too warm and comfortable for the pain to stick. 

"You used to push me away all the time, remember?" Bucky said and Steve opened one eye, visibly annoyed. "Hush, Steve. I’m answering your question, not busting your chops. I just mean that you were ornery and mean and wanted everyone around to know that you could make it on your own." 

"That sounds like busting my chops—"

"You were wrong," Bucky said. "And you were right. You could’ve made it on your own. But you didn’t. You chose to come live with me. You could’ve let me go, when I was running. But you didn’t—you tried to find me." 

"You could’ve run," Steve said softly, twisting his arm to grab Bucky’s hand. "I kind of thought you would, after you got out of cryo." 

"Us being here—it’s somewhere between luck and a choice. I can’t sort it out," Bucky said. "I’m not sure anyone could. But when I’m with you, I feel like it was fate that we ended up here—I think that’s it, I don’t know. I think that feeling that it couldn’t be different, even though we both know it could’ve been—I’ve always thought of that as what love was." 

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand, but he didn’t get it yet—Bucky wasn’t sure he understood himself. 

"A kid’s like that. She’ll show up, or he’ll show up. And we’ll figure out a name eventually. She’ll throw exactly who she is in our faces and we’ll have to deal with it, at the same time we’re part of making it. You didn’t know that this would be a side-effect of the serum. Neither of us even knew Wakanda existed. And even though we know all that, we have no idea how our kid’s going to turn out." 

"Other than stubborn," Steve said—he didn’t mean to derail, but Bucky blew past the interruption anyway. 

"But however she is, that’s the only way she could be. And I already feel that this is the only way it could have happened, even though we could lose everything tomorrow. That feeling—it’s not security, exactly. It’s _acceptance_ , but not in a bad way—I don’t know." 

"I think I get it," Steve said. He brought Bucky’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of his palm. "We were surprised, but we’re making something of it. You’ve always been good with surprises." 

Bucky sat in silence for a moment. He tipped his face back and let the warm breeze run over his skin—it was far too hot now to be refreshing, but it smelled like grass in the sun.

They’d both come a long way, to end up here. Bucky’s simmering memories were laden with terrors, things he couldn’t see on the bottom. Right now, Steve’s head was a heavy weight against his flat stomach—but part of him remembered a swell, a clench of pain, and then an ending that couldn’t have been any other way, not if he wanted to end up here. 

But it wasn’t all up to chance. 

"Next time it’ll be my turn." 

"What?" Steve sat up straight, grabbing Bucky’s shoulder and hauling himself upright. Bucky lowered his head to look at him—of course Steve didn’t miss the weight of that for a second. 

"We wouldn’t want an only child," Bucky said, smiling through his tension. "Look how you turned out." 

Steve searched Bucky’s face, but Bucky didn’t bother to avert his gaze. Steve could’ve been able to tell something was up from a ten mile distance this time. And that was the point. To tell him. 

Swallowing around nothing, Bucky let himself close his eyes, but kept his face turned to Steve—he needed the darkness for this. He didn’t know about any of this in the light. 

"I’ve been—I’ve been having these dreams. I haven’t talked to Shuri yet. But I think—" 

"You got the serum too," Steve whispered. His tone was torn between wondrous and horrified—Bucky understood. "Bucky—" 

"I haven’t known. I _still_ don’t know. My serum’s the knock-off"

He flinched when he felt Steve’s hand cup his cheek, his thumb stroking softly along his cheekbone. Bucky leaned into it and squeezed the hand that Steve still held.

"Thank you for telling me," Steve said. "I’m glad you’re volunteering for next time." 

Bucky smiled, feeling it strain his cheeks. "I’m just making it about me again." 

Steve flicked his nose, startling Bucky into a genuine laugh. 

"Us," he said.

Something about Steve’s dogged persistence in this was enough for Bucky to open his eyes—he wanted to see the warm smile he knew was on Steve’s face, yes. That one. Steve’s skin had passed from Irish porcelain into the sickly pale familiar from their childhoods. It would’ve seemed unfair that this pregnancy was bookended by awful periods of fatigue at beginning and end, but Bucky didn’t even know what fairness would mean, anymore, and didn’t care to know. 

If someone was tallying up exactly how much pain each of them should get, they’d probably check the ledger about happiness, too, and Bucky had no intention of giving any of it back.   


###### & One.

The joy had been so persistent in the last few years that it took some time before they both realized the necessity of fear. Bucky figured it out first—he usually did. 

Steve was on the couch again, fast asleep. His face was pale and his cheeks were swollen—he’d spent all morning on his knees in the bathroom, with the shower running. Bucky had sat cross-legged five feet from the door, silent and trusting he would be impossible to discern from inside; Steve’s attempt to hide was futile. The shower did nothing to muffle retching from Bucky’s ears and the more obvious tell was Bucky’s _nose_ —the windows were open to let in pleasant winter breezes, but the thin bitter stench of bile was unmistakable. He was sick—sick enough that he couldn’t keep food down, that he slept most of the day away, and that he was keeping it from Bucky. That was an old, old pattern—Bucky knew he had to be scared precisely at the moment when Steve refused to let him see the evidence. 

Bucky watched Steve and was frightened twice over because he wasn’t frightened enough. Something buried deep, underneath even his own name, was surging with elation, trying to push its nosy way into the front of his mind, but it escaped from his grasp as surely as a handful of the ocean would. 

He just knew, when he called Shuri, that as frightened as he was, that they were due for another bit of impossible good news. They had a streak of that every bit as long as the tragedy. 


End file.
